Right at that moment, she realized it might just fall to her.
But how could she help him? She sighed, coaxing him to lie back once more. Néomi had been a dancer, raised in a demimonde concerned with little more than revelry and drinking. What did she know about bringing vampires back from the brink?
She'd simply have to use the tools she had at her disposal. And really, the medicinal values of Scotch and laughter were underrated.
19
"Who's your best friend, mon grand?" she cooed, levitating two bottles. "Who does Conrad love?"
He was kneeling at the fireplace, finishing his fire. Outside the night was blustery, but inside it would be comfortable. "What have you got?" He stood, brushing his hands off on his pants, then sat on one of the chairs in front of the hearth.
"A gift for you."
"A... gift?" Even he knew his tone sounded perplexed.
"Oui, also known as a present. Or as the French say, un présent."
He accepted the bottles from her, dusting off the label of one. His jaw slackened. "This is Glen Garioch, nineteen twenty-five!" He hesitated even to read the other label. "My God," he breathed. "Macallan, 'twenty-four. Néomi, this is about a hundred thousand dollars' worth of whiskey. I can't drink this - you could sell it. Or have someone sell it for you."
"What would I do with money? I have plenty in my safe. Besides, I'd get much more pleasure out of seeing you drink it." She hovered just behind him, peering over his shoulder, which put her soft words right at his ear. "And then you must describe it to me, very slowly, in that deep, rumbly voice of yours. Is it smoky or earthy like peat? How does it unfold on your tongue? How long does it take for the heat to stroke through you inside?"
She could read the phone book and make it sound erotic. "You're sure?"
"Cheers!" She gave him an odd little smile as she said, "Á votre santé." To your health.
"Then I want to drink this and watch you dance."
She looked delighted with him; he'd never get enough of that look. "I want to dance and watch my vampire drink."
My vampire... Damn, he liked it when she called him that. He knew it was flirting at best, but he couldn't stem the flush of pleasure.
He opened the Macallan, letting it breathe. The scent of it hit him, and his lips curled. This would not be whiskey that he would use, as he had in the past. For one thing, he didn't need it to dull his rage as much as he had before. More importantly, a bottle like this demanded to be savored -
"I'll be back," she said, then vanished.
He tensed, anxious whenever she left, but she returned in minutes, bearing a windup gramophone over one hand and a crystal tumbler over the other. She handed him the glass, then positioned the gramophone on the floor. Once she'd wound it and set the record needle in place, scratchy music began to play, a slow jazz ballad.
Making her voice like an announcer's, she said, "And now! For the matinee! The supremely talented Miss Laress will perform for a lucky audience! Of one!" She smiled coyly. "I've remembered an old dance I used to do when I was younger. I think you'll like it... ."
As his rare whiskey breathed, Conrad leaned back in the chair in front of the fire, watching the most beautiful female he'd ever seen dance solely for him.
Though Néomi wasn't blushing with color, she was still lovely to him - especially when she moved. Hypnotic. This dance was so effortless for her, she would turn to him in the middle of pirouettes or standing splits to smile or wink at him.
Néomi lived in the moment, laughed easily, flirted constantly. Her natural state was happiness, which both mystified and attracted him. Over his long life, that state had continually eluded him. But she had a theory why: "People think happiness will simply fall into their laps. You have to aspire to it. And sometimes you have to seize it when it's kicking and screaming."
Néomi had been murdered, possessed no body, and was still seizing all the pleasure she could. Conrad respected that.
Now she danced as if she knew by instinct precisely how to attract him alone. How to be irresistible to him. So why try to resist? Why struggle against his attraction?
Because even if she returned his feelings, he would only end up disappointing her.
He was improving here, but he wasn't right in the mind by any means, still suffering from occasional rages and grueling nightmares. How would he do once freed into the real world? Would he be able to keep from drinking his foes when he was addicted to harvesting their power?
For centuries his adversaries had been determined to discover anything he cared for. But then, that was an unspoken rule in the Lore. Immortals could be blasé about death after living so long - the best bargaining chip was revenge against family or loved ones. Yet for all those years he'd had no liabilities.
Conrad had acquired his first. Was running headlong to her.
He shook his head. No, his enemies couldn't hurt Néomi, could never abduct or wound her. Maybe that was part of the reason he'd found such an unusual feeling of ease with her - because he knew he couldn't harm her either. Even when he got free, he wouldn't be able to accidentally injure her if he lost control.
But how to get free? Not one of his brothers had returned since that day he tried to convince them of Néomi's existence - the day they'd left for Mount Oblak, the Forbearer Castle.
Conrad knew that meant one of two things had happened.
Kristoff had possibly discovered that they were keeping Conrad alive. The second law of the Forbearer order? Kill the Fallen without measure. Just by keeping Conrad alive, they'd been committing treason. Kristoff had likely imprisoned them at Mount Oblak, vowing to free them as soon as they gave up Conrad's location.